


once i was loved

by reindeerjumper



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types, Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, F/M, Family Dynamics, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Second Chances, Slow Burn, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-03-15 18:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13618830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reindeerjumper/pseuds/reindeerjumper
Summary: It had been 408 days since she had taken her rings off of her finger. Four hundred and eight days. That was all it took.





	1. four hundred and eight days

**Author's Note:**

> i had the idea to take the plot of _mad about the boy_ and switch it up a bit. not my characters, just my idea. not sure how many chapters this will end up being, but i can't stop thinking about it, so you're all on this journey with me :P

It had been 408 days since she had taken her rings off of her finger.

It was amazing how quickly 408 days flashed by, and how tortuously slow they dragged on. Over four hundred days of getting the kids ready in the morning on her own. Over four hundred days of diary entries that were morose and snipped short. Over four hundred days of falling asleep in cold sheets. Over four hundred days of moments that felt like they’d never end, the sheer weight of everything crushing her from all sides.

Everything had happened so quickly. 

She and Jack had met at Glastonbury, completely out of their elements, only to fall into bed together later that night. She had gone with Miranda to get her mind off of  _ him,  _ a welcome distraction to push her to move on with her life. 

Jack was everything  _ he _ wasn’t--carefree and spontaneous, a breath of fresh air that she didn’t realize she needed. By some magical interference, Bridget ended up being bound to the boyish American by far more than a one-night stand. Nine months later, their son was born.

Over those nine months, Bridget found herself falling hard and fast for the dating mogul. He made her laugh and challenged her in new ways. He was a team player. It wasn’t long before they were confessing their feelings, curled around each other in the dead of night, a whisper against the back of her neck that made her breath catch in her throat. 

“Bridget, I think I’ve fallen in love with you.”

No one had said that to her since  _ him. _ It was a weird sensation, hearing the words come out of someone else’s mouth in an accent that she still found thrilling. With her hand covering the swell of her belly, she turned in his arms to look at him. He had a shadow of growth on his jawline, making him look rugged and younger, and the blue in his eyes was hot electricity. Everything about Jack was electric...it was exciting and fast and would burn you if you held on too long.

“I think I’ve fallen in love with you, too,” she had replied, the squirming of the baby underneath her hand doing nothing to quell the race of her heart.

Not long after, they had been married. A small ceremony in her parents’ garden, their son hanging off of her hip as Jack kissed her sweetly. The following years were whirlwind ones, flying back and forth between England and New York, their family growing from just a son to a son and daughter in only a matter of years. 

Her life was fast-paced and glamorous in a way that surprised her--it wasn’t law dinners and society columns, but brunches in millionaires’ lush backyards. It was tickets to Sundance and pork belly with black treacle at Bumpkin. It was waking up to the skyline of New York, a cup of black coffee in her hand with her husband pressed against her back as he hummed a Sinatra song into her ear.

Life with Jack suited Bridget. Everyone said so. She smiled more, stuck to a healthy lifestyle, joined the ranks of “cool Instagram moms”. It was light years from where she had found herself with  _ him.  _ Those years had been good in their own way, but the heartache he had left her with was finally healing, and she was all the better for it. She no longer lingered by the front window like an eager dog awaiting their master’s return. Instead, she was step-for-step in life with Jack, partaking in his adventures and carving a path for herself in the process. 

Granted, there was sometimes a flash of the life she had before Glastonbury, and it would leave her staring at the dark ceiling in the middle of the night while Jack snored next to her. She’d pick at the linen sheets with her fingernails until they pilled, her mind racing with what-ifs.  _ What if we had worked out? What if he actually listened to what frustrated me? What if he, for just once, tried to change?  _ They would run through her mind like a pack of rabid dogs, nipping at her happiness and tearing it apart. By the time the sun rose, her subconscious was flooded with the scent of his soap and the way his lips felt against the shell of her ear.

These thoughts only crept in like ghosts once in a great while. The majority of Bridget’s life as Mrs. Jack Qwant was blessed, and she tried very hard to not let these specters rattle her. She had two children with a wonderful man whose spirit and sense of adventure were enough to satisfy her for the rest of her life.

What she hadn’t bargained on was the abrupt end that his spirit and sense of adventure would bring. 

She remembered getting the phone call. It was the dead of night in London when the phone had rang. Groggily picking up the receiver, she could barely discern the words that the man was saying on the other end. The first thing that registered was the man’s accent--it wasn’t one she was accustomed to, Australian but not quite. He was trying his hardest to keep his voice even as he told her that Jack was gone. For some reason, the only thing she could fixate on was the nasally tone of his vowels.

“Gone?” she had said, trying to tame her mad hair while keeping her voice low enough to not wake the children.

“Yes, ma’am. He was kayaking on Lake Tekapo when a bit of bad weather came in. It’s a treacherous place, ma’am, even for an experienced kayaker like your husband. He capsized, and we believe he died of hypothermia. I’m so sorry to call you like this to tell you. If there’s anything we in New Zealand can do, please, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Silently, Bridget had hung up the phone, her right hand nervously twisting the rings on her finger as she stared into the darkness.

Over four hundred days since she had taken off those rings. It just didn’t feel right. She wasn’t ready to move on. Everything felt like a cruel joke, and it took every ounce of motivation she had to get through the day. So, for over four hundred days, she woke up, got the children ready, sent them off to school, made her way to work, stared mindlessly at a computer screen all day, picked the kids up from school, made dinner for them all, ran baths for both children, tucked them into bed, and then cried herself to sleep.

It was an exhausting routine, especially lasting for over four hundred days.

It wasn’t the same everyday. Some days they went to the park, or visited her parents. Other days it was a trip to get ice cream, or a transatlantic flight to visit their--Jack’s--friends in New York. Some days were better than others. Some days were utterly awful. It all depended on the hand she was dealt that day. Most days she didn’t care what the hand was--all she wanted was to get through it, trudging forward with clouded vision and murky thoughts. 

It’s funny, though, how even through the murkiness, there’s sometimes sharp, vibrant clarity.

Bridget had a moment of this razor’s edge awareness four hundred and eight days after the long distance phone call that shattered her. She was in Sainsbury’s, her son hanging off of her leg, whining for a sweet, while her daughter straddled her hip and came dangerously close to her hair with a lollipop. She was tired and at her wit’s end, but shopping needed to be done and nobody else was going to do it if she decided not to. 

Balancing her daughter while dragging her son behind her, she had reached for a carton of eggs that somehow managed to slip through her fingers. All twelve eggs exploded with brilliant force against the linoleum floor, and tears immediately sprang to her eyes as she placed her daughter in the trolley before trying to clean the mess up. 

Her daughter was now crying and the weight in Bridget’s chest was threatening to claw its way out in the form of a gigantic sob. She watched through watery vision as her trembling fingers picked up the shattered pieces of eggshell. Somewhere in her peripheral vision, she could see her son--his eyes the same vivid blue as his father’s--trying to help her, his wants suddenly forgotten as he picked up eggshell from the floor. The diamond in her ring was picking up the flourescent lighting in the store, sparkling in fractured light as tears continued to fill her eyes, and the sob she had been fighting against finally escaped. 

Bridget could see shoes crowding her space, people cooing over her daughter and clucking under their breath as she scrambled to pick up the mess. Nobody besides her son was offering to help, and she could feel the heat of embarrassment flooding her face as she noticed his hands coated with raw egg. 

Just as she considered sitting on the floor and having herself a cry, the crowd be damned, a hand entered her line of sight and started picking up the shells she couldn’t reach. Unable to make eye contact, she simply muttered a  _ thank you,  _ dragging the back of her hand across her cheek to try and stem some of the tears that were now splashing down her face. 

“Of course,” the hand’s owner replied, and Bridget suddenly felt like it was 3AM and she was staring at her bedroom ceiling. 

Slowly lifting her head, she took in the man who was helping her clean up. He was clean shaven, his salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed, and he had a pair of tortoiseshell glasses on his face. She could see under his Mackintosh that he had on a navy blue jumper with a crisp, white collar peeking out of the neck. He was squatting in front of her, his mouth downturned in a way that was reminiscent of a thoughtful tortoise, and she couldn’t help the choked laugh that came out of her. 

_ “Mark?” _

The man looked up, startled by the sound of his name. Bridget watched as his furrowed brow smoothed out, and his downturned mouth fell slack. He blinked a few times as if he were waking from a dream, his palm flat in front of him and piled high with broken eggshell. 

_ “Bridget?” _ he murmured.

Four hundred and eight days. That was all it took.


	2. unbelievable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things between mark & bridget just keep getting more and more awkward.

It was too much.

Mark’s eyes were still trained on hers, a long, viscous thread of egg dripping from his hand. Bridget could feel her jaw set, unbidden tears springing to her eyes that she hastily tried to blink away. She watched his Adam’s apple bob. She could feel her son tugging on her jacket. 

Suddenly, there was a loud clattering next to her as one of the Sainsbury’s workers walked up, dragging a mop and a bucket on wheels behind him. Bridget blinked, finally taking her gaze off of Mark’s to look up at the teenage boy. His nametag read, “Scott”. 

“No worries, ma’am,” Scott said, handing her a few paper towels from his back pocket. “Happens all the time.”

Silently, Bridget took the paper towels and wiped her hands on them before turning to her son to wipe the raw egg off of his palms. She could see Scott handing Mark a towel as well, and offering him the bucket to drop the eggshells into. Her eyes bouncing between her son’s hands and Mark, Bridget tried to process the strange feeling that had settled behind her breastbone.

Scott had started to slosh the mop between her and Mark, and Bridget took the distraction as an opportunity to look back in Mark’s direction. His brow was furrowed as he continued to wipe the egg off of his hands, and she could see that his left ring finger was bare. She couldn’t help lingering on his hands--the long, square fingers, the elegant way they moved--and she couldn’t help the blush that she felt spread across her cheeks. Placing her fingertips on her cheek, she looked towards her son, who was staring intently at her, a dirty paper towel clutched between his hands.

Bridget abruptly stood up, smoothing out the fabric of her yoga pants. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Mark standing up, and she forced herself not to look directly at him. The crowd around them had started to disperse while Scott continued to clean up the mess between them, and there was something about acknowledging Mark’s presence that made her uneasy.

That was short-lived.

“Bridget,” Mark said softly. She allowed her eyes to settle on his face. “I didn’t realize you shopped at this Sainsbury’s.” 

It was Mark’s weird way of conversing when he was uncomfortable--choose a topic and make a comment on it, no matter how out-of-the-blue it seemed. The fact that he seemed nervous loosened the knot between her shoulders, and Bridget allowed herself to retie her ponytail to make herself look more presentable.

“Yes, we, uh, have always shopped here,” she said, looping her hair tie one more time around her ponytail. As her hand dropped back to her side, she felt her son’s hand slide into hers. She looked down to him and smiled--he returned it, his smile a gappy, wide-toothed grin that looked so much like his father’s.

“And who is this?” Mark continued, nodding his head in her son’s direction.

Bridget felt her chest flush. “Um, this is River,” she said, giving her son’s hand a little squeeze. She could see Mark fighting against a smile, the dimple in his cheek infuriatingly attractive. He cleared his throat, and Bridget looked back towards her daughter, who still sat perched in the trolley. “This is Clemmie,” she said, smiling at her daughter. Clemmie eyed Mark suspiciously, her lollipop hanging limply in her lap.

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you both,” Mark said without missing a beat. He crouched down in front of River and extended his hand. River buried his face against Bridget’s thigh, but it didn’t deter Mark from trying. Bridget gave her son a nudge, encouraging him forward with a hand on the back of his head, and River eventually caved and took Mark’s massive hand in his own. Bridget couldn’t take her eyes off of the scene, watching her and Jack’s offspring shake hands with the man who had held possession over her heart for the better part of her life. 

“Who are you?” River asked as Mark shook his hand.

Bridget, still entranced by the entire exchange, caught sight of Mark looking up at her. There was something in the brown of his eyes that she couldn’t put her finger on, but if she were a betting woman, she’d almost say it was sadness.

“I’m a very,  _ very  _ old friend of your mother’s,” Mark said, smiling once again at River. “My name is Mark.”

It was now River’s turn to avert his gaze to Bridget, who nodded down at her son. “Yes, Mark I have known each other for...well, it feels like centuries.”

“Why haven’t I met you before?” River asked, reclaiming his hand and returning it into Bridget’s. 

Mark cleared his throat again. Bridget could see a flush cross the back of his neck, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek from laughing. 

“Well, um, your mother and I...well, I’ve been out of the country for some time,” Mark finished lamely, finally standing up. 

“Yes, we’ve both been very busy,” Bridget continued, catching Mark’s eye. 

“Oh,” River said.

Bridget smiled again at Mark, letting go of River’s hand and grabbing the handle of the trolley. 

“It was really lovely to see you, Mark. I hope you’ve been well. And thanks for the help,” she said quickly, pushing the trolley away as she spoke. 

Mark stood in the aisle, his basket of groceries sitting by his feet and his brow once again furrowed. She watched as he scrubbed a hand across his chin. 

“It was good seeing you, too,” he called out after her. 

Bridget gave him a small wave before darting down a side aisle.  _ Holy fucking hell. _ She took several steadying breaths, both hands white-knuckled on the handle of the trolley as Clemmie looked soulfully up at her, the blue of her eyes unblinking. Bridget pressed a kiss to her forehead, taking comfort in the way she smelled like syrup.

Unable to focus on anything other than her racing heart, Bridget quickly beelined for the checkout line and started to load her groceries onto the belt. It was the fastest she’d ever checked out before, piling item after item until they were almost teetering. After bagging the groceries, she quickly paid the cashier and headed out into the parking lot.

River helped her to unload the bags into the boot of her Prius as she clicked Clemmie into her carseat. As she stood up from the door, she let out an audible gasp that she later found mortifying. Standing near the trolley at the boot of her car was Mark, a few shopping bags dangling from his hand and a carton of eggs cradled in his other arm.

“Hello,” he said, taking a step forward. 

“Mark,” Bridget choked out. “What...what are you doing here?”

“Well, I was just in Sainsbury’s--”

“Yes, I’m aware of that.”

“Um, well, you had dropped that carton of eggs, and didn’t pick up another one. I figured you forgot.” 

At this, Mark held out the egg carton towards her. Bridget took it from him, allowing her fingertips to brush against his, and an electric jolt exploded down her nerve endings. 

“Thank you,” she murmured, holding the carton with both hands in front of her.

“No trouble,” he replied, shoving his now empty hand into his trouser pocket. 

“Well, we must be going. Thanks again,” she said, ushering River into the backseat. She put the carton of eggs into the front seat before smiling at Mark. 

“It was really good to see you, Bridget,” he said.

Bridget felt her blood turn to ice. She wasn’t ready to admit how good it was to see him, too, so she opted to mutely nod while giving a strained smile instead. She awkwardly waved to him, then slid into the driver’s side of the Prius. 

_ Holy. Fucking. Hell. _

 

* * *

 

Later that night, once the kids were fed, bathed, and in bed, Bridget poured herself an obnoxiously large glass of wine and sat down behind her computer screen. It had been a few days since she had checked her email, and Finch would inevitably be hounding her if there was something important she had missed. 

Taking a long, fortifying sip of wine, Bridget double clicked on the mail icon on her desktop. There were the typical ads and promo codes from department stores, a few chain emails that her mother insisted on sending, but nothing from the office. She smirked into her glass of wine as her mouse hovered over the X on the screen--knowing she could go into the office the next day without any responsibility looming over her was relieving. 

Just as she was about to click the X, a chime sounded, indicating a new email. She glanced back to her inbox where a (1) was now staring back at her. With another sip, she clicked it, causing her immediate regret. She choked on the mouthful of chardonnay, spraying her keyboard as she tried to regain her breath.

_ From: Mark Darcy < _ [ _ mfdarcy63@gmail.com _ ](mailto:mfdarcy63@gmail.com) _ > _

_ To: You < _ [ _ bridgelinejones@gmail.com _ ](mailto:bridgelinejones@gmail.com) _ > _

_ Subject: Hello _

 

_ Dear Bridget, _

_ I hope I’m not overstepping my boundaries by emailing you. I also hope that you still use this email--if not, then I suppose my attempts at contacting you will be futile.  _

_ You know I’ve never been good at emotions. I’ve been trying over the past years to get better at them, and I think I’ve made some progress, but seeing you today seemed to wipe my slate clean. I don’t know how we’ve managed to (I assume) live in the same neighborhood for this long without bumping into each other sooner. The shock of seeing you, covered in egg with two children in tow, is something that will be very hard to forget. _

_ First, I would like to offer my condolences about the passing of your husband. I hope I don’t drudge up any painful memories by bringing the situation up so far past it happening, but please know that I sincerely am sorry. According to my mother, he was a wonderful man who made you blossom. There is nothing I can begrudge him.  _

_ Second, your family is lovely. Your son and daughter are the pinnacle of what I would expect from you--bright-eyed, inquisitive, a bit pushy, but polite. Kudos to you for raising them so well. I always knew you would be a fabulous mum, and today just proved it. _

_ I’m starting to realize that I’m rambling, which is far from the point of this email. My apologies. I’m writing to let you know that if you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to reach out to me. I still live in the same townhouse, and have the same phone number. I have no doubt that your Urban Family are always there when you need them, but I also know they have their own families to worry about. Seeing that I am on my own, I have ample time on my hands, if you should need it. _

_ Once again, I hope I’m not overstepping my boundaries by emailing you. I won’t be offended if you would prefer to keep your distance--I understand completely.  _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Mark _

As Bridget read the last line, she tipped the glass in her hand all the way back, guzzling the rest of the chardonnay as if it were water.

_ Un-fucking-believable. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went back & forth about Mark's email, but eventually settled on the fact that he'd be just as awkward writing as he would have been in person. That's why I love him :') Also, River's name is a total tip-of-the-hat to EOR, when Mark is horrified at the idea of naming his son that. If _anyone_ would have been onboard with the name River, it would've been Jack.
> 
> ALSO, thank you for all of the wonderful feedback! I'm glad you're all enjoying it so much!


	3. a case of do or die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the situation from mark's POV.

Sunlight was leaking through the window over Mark’s leather couch, and somewhere underneath his arse cheek, his phone’s alarm was blaring loudly. He blinked slowly, pulling his arm from over his eyes to look at his surroundings. With bleary recognition, he realized that he was asleep in his home office. On the side table was an empty rocks glass, the bottom covered in a thin layer of water from the melted ice cubes. Next to it was an almost empty whisky decanter.

“Fuck,” Mark rasped, dropping his head down on the arm rest and dragging his arm back across his eyes. He had drank entirely too much, but it had been medicinal. Seeing Bridget in the market with two children in tow had shaken him to his very core, and when he got home, all he wanted was a stiff drink to try and numb the way his heart was still rattling inside of his chest. One drink turned to two, two to three, and, well…

The rattling in his chest had now migrated north and was gradually evolving into a throbbing headache. He let out a groan before checking the time on his phone. It was 7AM. He still had an hour before he had to be to chambers. With a tremendous amount of effort, Mark sat up and swung his feet around to land on the carpet in front of him. He took a steadying breath before squinting into the brightness of his office.

On the desk was a smattering of papers that he had been working on, and next to it sat his laptop. It was still open, which struck him as odd, until a hazy recollection floated to the forefront of his mind.

“No,” he said aloud. “No, no, no.” He heaved himself off of the couch and beelined for the laptop. Quickly typing in his password, he held his breath as the screen came to life. His email was open, and he closed his eyes as if in pain. Opening one eye, he hit “refresh” on his mailbox and felt his stomach drop out when he saw a new email. It was a response to his drunken proclamation. Hesitantly, he clicked it.

_ From: Bridget Jones <bridgelinejones _ [ _ @gmail.com _ ](mailto:mfdarcy63@gmail.com) _ > _

_ To: You <mfdarcy63@gmail.com> _

_ Re: Hello _

_ Thanks. _

_ -B _

A nausea that he wasn’t sure was attributed to the email or the hangover rolled through his gut and he let out a groan. With a shaky hand, he closed the lid to his laptop and leaned back in his chair. 

Mark wasn’t prone to declarations of love and adoration, but when his repressed emotions were lubricated with whisky and solace, it seemed that he couldn’t help himself. “I can’t fucking believe I did that,” he muttered to himself, his fingertips running along the stubble on his top lip. His eyes traveled along the length of his desk as he mulled over the situation. It had been years since Bridget had chucked him (and rightfully so), and he’d gotten over it. 

He had drowned himself in work, taking any abroad job that he could. He occasionally popped into his parents’ on holiday. He adopted a cat--which he named Bingley in an attempt at humor (later he realized that Bridget would have found it hilarious)--and found companionship in the orange tabby. For all intents and purposes, he was happy.

It wasn’t until he saw Bridget in Sainsbury’s, though, that he realized how utterly alone he had been. He hadn’t noticed it was her at first, resigning himself to the fact that he just didn’t think about her once he heard she was married. All of his feelings for her burbled to the surface once they had locked eyes. All of the things they had wanted together--marriage, a family--weren’t possible with him, but someone else was able to give that to her. It suited her. He thought solidarity had suited him, but he was very, very wrong.

Glancing at the clock on the wall, he figured he’d better get a move on--antacids and paracetamol were first on the list--and then head into chambers. He’d sort the mess out later when he got home, promising himself he wouldn’t refill the whisky decanter.

* * *

As Mondays go, Mark’s was by far the worst he’d had in a while. He was hungover and anxious, snapping at anyone who dared to invade his office without explicit instruction. Mark knew he had a reputation for being a bit intimidating among the younger staff, but his demeanor post-email definitely earned him the title. He barked at the door whenever someone knocked, and only emerged from his office when he left to grab lunch.

At one point, as he stared out the window of his office onto the green, he heard his door open. Whipping around in his chair, he glared at the intruder and said, “I’m sorry, who gave you permission to come in here?” He stopped short, though, when he realized it was Jeremy standing in the doorway. Jeremy held both hands up at his sides in surrender, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.

“Alright, mate?” he said, taking a step into Mark’s office.

Mark felt the tension bleed out of his shoulders as he nodded. “Yes, I’m fine. Come in.” Jeremy crossed the threshold completely and strode across the office. He took a seat across from Mark’s desk and stretched his legs out in front of him, unbuttoning his suit jacket before crossing his hands across his stomach. 

“What’s going on?” he said to Mark.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re an absolute bear today, Mark. More than normal. I think you made Nigel wet his pants earlier, but he’s too proud to admit it.” Jeremy smirked at this. “Something is clearly going on.”

Mark leaned forward onto the desk, his hands dug into his hair. Letting out a breath, he raised his head to look at Jeremy.

“I saw Bridget yesterday.”

At this, Jeremy quirked an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“At Sainsbury’s. I didn’t realize it was her, at first...she had dropped a carton of eggs, and all I saw was the top of her head, and a little boy helping her pick up the pieces. I felt obligated to help, since everyone else was just gawking at her. Not thirty seconds  into me helping, she goes and says my name, and I felt like someone was playing a terrible joke on me.”

“And?”

“Well, it was incredibly awkward, as you can imagine. She practically ran away from me, dragging both kids behind her. I didn’t really know what to do. You know how I get.” At this, Jeremy nodded sympathetically. “So, I bought her a new carton of eggs and followed her out to the parking lot.” Mark paused, grimacing at the memory. “I probably looked like a bloody stalker.”

“Ah, mate, don’t be too hard on yourself. It couldn’t have been that bad...Magda hasn’t breathed a word to me, which means Bridget hasn’t breathed a word to her,” Jeremy said.

“It gets worse,” Mark continued, bringing his eyes up to meet Jeremy’s. 

“Oh.”

“I emailed her. Drunkenly. At eleven o’clock at night.”

At this, Jeremy grimaced with him. “What did it say? Did you make an arse of yourself?”

“I don’t know. I feel like an absolute tit. I didn’t profess any unrequited love or anything like that. I  _ did _ offer my condolences on the passing of her husband.”

“Oh God, in an email?”

Mark glared at Jeremy, who promptly shut up. “Yes, in an email. Along with an offer to help her out, if needed, since we apparently live in the same neighborhood. I never knew it because I’m never home. I believe I said, ‘Seeing that I am on my own, I have ample time on my hands, if you should need it.’” 

“Oof,” Jeremy said, shaking his head. “That’s rough.”

“I know.”

“Has she responded?”

“Only a very curt thank you. I haven’t heard anything since,” Mark said, leaning back into his chair. 

“I’m sorry, mate,” Jeremy said. “Should we go grab a drink? I’ll tell Magda that I’m getting dinner with you instead of coming home.”

Mark considered the offer. He had promised himself that he wouldn’t drink that night, but one or two glasses of wine over dinner didn’t sound too bad. Nodding his head, he accepted Jeremy’s invitation.

“Brilliant,” Jeremy said, standing up and clapping his hands together. “Let me go grab my coat and we can be on our way. You pick where we go.”

“Very well then,” Mark murmured, looking up at Jeremy. “How does Adore Remo sound?”

“Sounds great,” Jeremy replied. “Nothing fixes a cocked up situation like carbs.” He grinned at Mark, clapping him on the shoulder from across his desk. “Don’t fret, Mark. It’ll all work out. I’ll be right back.” At that, he strode out of Mark’s office and shut the door behind him.

Mark let out a sigh, turning his chair back around to look out the window. It was starting to get dark, and he could see several colleagues starting to make their way out of their buildings. 

Talking to Jeremy had helped, and he felt a bit lighter after unloading the situation on him. It was reassuring that Magda didn’t know, either, because that meant Bridget hadn’t called on her friends for emotional support. Maybe the email hadn’t been as devastating as he had originally wagered. The thought buoyed his spirits.

Standing up, Mark walked over to the coat rack by his office door and pulled his overcoat on. He buttoned the front of it and adjusted the collar before feeling a buzz in his pocket. Assuming it was Jeremy telling him to meet him in the lobby, Mark pulled his phone out and unlocked it. 

The text wasn’t from Jeremy, though. It was from a number he didn’t know.

_ Wasn’t sure if you had somehow gotten my new number. I hope this is still yours. Figured you’d need it, in case I texted you some absurd emergency...didn’t want you think I’m a random nutter. Hope your day went well. -B _

There was a knock on the door before Mark got to the last sentence, and Jeremy bounced in saying, “Ready?”

Mark had no time to process the situation. He simply looked up from his phone, his mouth slightly agape, before nodding and clearing his throat. “Yes, let’s go.”

The whole time to Adore Remo, Jeremy blathered on about the footie game and a new set of lingerie that Magda had purchased. Mark, however, wasn’t listening. He was grasping onto the phone in his pocket with white-knuckled concentration, trying immensely to hide the smile that was threatening to cross his lips. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love when mark is a blundering idiot<3 also, apparently [adore remo](https://www.adoreremo.co.uk/restaurant-gallery/) is a legit place, and i really want to go to it.


	4. look what thoughts can bring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time has come for Bridget to take Mark up on his offer.

“Mark? Mark, it’s me. Bridget.”

Rain was dumping out of the sky, soaking through Bridget’s jumper as she tried to inspect the flat tire in the dark. She had dropped the kids off at Grafton Underwood for a weekend with her parents, and just as she was approaching the city lights, the tire had blown out, leaving her stranded. 

There weren’t many people she could call--Shaz was away on a family holiday, Jude would be too frazzled to come help, her parents had the kids--but she knew of one person who was free and had offered assistance if she needed it. 

“Bridget?” came Mark’s voice through the phone. “Are you alright?”

“Well, yes and no. I hate to call you this late at night, especially in a rainstorm, but, well...my car’s got a flat. I’m almost home but nobody else is around or isn’t picking up their phone. I hate to ask--”

“Where are you?” He cut her off, his tone taking on the authoritative lilt that always put her at ease when they were together.

“Right outside London.” She squinted down the road, rain lashing at her face and plastering her fringe to her forehead. “I’m on All Souls Avenue, which is ironic because there isn’t a soul to be found.” The quiet neighborhood showed no signs of life, and she let out a huff before kicking at the flat tire.

“That isn’t too far. Stay right there. I’m on my way.”

Before Bridget could thank him, he clicked off. She took a steadying breath as she stowed her phone in the back pocket of her jeans. A year ago, Mark Darcy would have been the last person she would have called. She’d rather have called Daniel Cleaver before Mark, but he was dead, and so was Jack, and that left her with really only one option. Shaking her head, she got back into the driver’s seat of her car and tried to steady herself before Mark showed up.

It was only fifteen minutes before Mark’s sleek BMW pulled up next to her Prius. She waved at him through the passenger window, smiling as she muttered, “What the fuck am I doing,” under her breath. He waved back, a deep-dimpled smirk on his face. Grabbing her purse and keys, Bridget got out of the car and ran around the front of it, the rain getting in her eyes and rewetting the damp fabric of her jumper. 

Mark leaned over the gear shift to open the door for her, and Bridget gratefully yanked it open before throwing herself into the front seat. She was completely soaked through, her hair sticking to every crevice in her face and her chest heaving from the exertion of running through the rain. 

“Alright?” Mark said, a hint of amusement lurking on the edges of his inquiry.

“I am now,” Bridget replied, finally looking towards him. “Thank you so much for coming. I didn’t know who else to call.”

“Don’t mention it,” Mark said, sliding the gear shift into park. “Shall I grab the car seats out of yours and put them into mine? I’m assuming River and Clemmie are both still in there…?”

“Oh God, I’m an idiot. I forgot to tell you that I was coming home from Grafton Underwood when I got the flat. They’re staying with my parents tonight.”

If Bridget hadn’t been staring intently at his face, she would have missed the way Mark’s features fell minutely at the realization that her children were not with her. He quickly rearranged them into something more pleasant before saying, “Ah, well, I suppose we’ll be off then. Make sure you lock it.”

Mutely nodding, Bridget held Mark’s profile in her gaze as she mindlessly pressed the lock button on her key fob. He wasn’t looking at her, rather at the steering wheel in front of him. The glow from the dashboard highlighted the dip of his eyelashes and the one curl that lay against his forehead. Bridget could see he was pursing his lips, discreetly chewing on the inside of his cheek, and something pulled inside of her chest.

Despite the heated seat being on (preemptively turned on by Mark, she assumed), a shiver ran through her body. There was something strange about the situation she found herself in--how many times had she been in this exact passenger seat?--and her body convulsed as if it knew it shouldn’t be there. Her eyes lingered on his hand resting on the gear shift, and she fought against the urge to grab it.

“Bridget, you’re soaking wet. You’re probably frozen,” Mark said, snapping her out of her reverie. “Here.” Bridget watched as he pulled his arms out of the sleeves of his coat, biting back a laugh as he struggled with his long limbs in the small space of the driver’s seat. With a huff, he finally extracted it from behind him. 

“Thank you,” Bridget said, smiling at him as she took the coat from his hand. Mark smiled in response, watching her as she wrapped it around the front of her and tucking her chin into the collar. Satisfied, Mark put the BMW into drive and pulled away from her Prius.

A few minutes went by before Mark said, “So, where am I taking you?”

“Oh,” Bridget replied, glancing back towards him. “I suppose back to my house.” She rattled off her address, and Mark nodded knowingly. She settled back into the warmth of the heated seat and tried to not focus on the smell of Mark’s cologne lingering on the collar of his jacket.

She continued to gaze out the window, watching the rain soaked landscape of London fly past. Droplets of water left neon-colored streaks in their wake, and Bridget tried to focus on them as they rattled past her vision.   _ I hate nights like this, _ she thought to herself, wrapping Mark’s jacket closer around her. 

“What was that?”

Bridget turned towards Mark, her brow furrowed at his inquiry. “What?” she said.

“You said something.”

_ Fuck. _

“Oh,” Bridget said. “I..I was just saying that I hate nights like this.”

Mark was silent as he continued to watch the road in front of him, but she could see the gears working in his brain. 

“The rain,” Bridget continued, cursing her inability to stay silent. “It just reminds me of Jack and, well...you know.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Mark said quietly, turning on his left indicator to make a turn.

Bridget swallowed heavily. “He died during a storm. He was kayaking in New Zealand and--”

Realizing his faux pas, Mark quickly cut her off. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”

“No, really, it’s alright. How would you have known?”

The silence in the car was almost deafening now, both of them sitting awkwardly as the BMW glided through the glistening city.  _ Miranda will never believe this is happening to me, _ Bridget thought to herself, closing her eyes in a grimace. She couldn’t bring herself to look in Mark’s direction, so she kept her eyes locked on the streaks of light as they whizzed by.

“Would you...would it be easier if you came back to my place?” she heard Mark say, and she had to shake herself to make sure that she had heard him correctly.

“What?”

“I just figured that maybe you’d prefer to come back to my house instead of going home. Take your mind off of the whole thing,” Mark said, refusing to look at her.

Bridget didn’t know how to respond. The offer was generous, and if she hadn’t known Mark, it would have sounded like a terribly veiled come-on. But this was Mark Darcy, and she knew that he would never suggest such a thing. She hadn’t lied about hating stormy nights like this, and it  _ would _ be nice to have something to take her mind off of Jack, especially with the kids in Grafton Underwood. 

Apparently her musing was taking far longer than she thought, because Mark quickly blurted out, “I’m sorry. Forget it. That was terribly presumptuous of me.”

“Mark,” Bridget said quietly. “Stop. I think that’d be good…nice. I could use the distraction.”

Even in profile,  Bridget could see the satisfaction on Mark’s face. His dimple was lurking just beneath the surface and she could see the tension in his shoulders deflate. 

“Right. Well.” He lifted a hand to rub it across his chin before saying, “Have you eaten?”

Bridget shook her head, ignoring the rolling in her stomach at the prospect of having a meal with the ex-love of her life. In his house. At night. 

“Shall I order some Chinese?”

Mutely, Bridget nodded again. She watched as Mark’s deft fingers flew across some buttons on his steering wheel before the sound of a phone ringing reverberated through the cabin of the BMW. It was picked up by the familiar voice of the owner of Fortune Cat, the Chinese takeaway place they always ordered from when they were together. 

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mr. Yang, it’s Mark Darcy.”

“Mr. Darcy! Hello! What can I help you with?”

“I was wondering if I could place an order for pick-up?”

“Anything for you, Mr. Darcy.”

Bridget sat in the passenger seat as she listened to Mark ramble off their old order. By the time he finished ordering, it was clear that Mr. Yang knew something was up. There was a beat of silence before he started speaking.

“This is much more than you usually order, Mr. Darcy. Very familiar order, though…”

Mark cleared his throat, refusing to look in Bridget’s direction.

“Ah, yes, well…” He trailed off, and Bridget could see the tips of his ears turning red, even in the darkness of the BMW. “How long before I can pick it up?”

“Fifteen minutes,” Mr. Yang replied.

“Brilliant. See you then.” Mark hung up the phone, and Bridget had to suppress a smile.

“Order from there often?” she said, the nervousness in her muscles slowly ebbing away.

“More than I care to admit,” Mark replied, turning on his right hand indicator.

“We do, too.”

At this, Mark turned toward her and smiled. There was something soft in his expression, like he just remembered that she was no longer a singular unit. There were two other lives she was responsible for, and there was something in his smile that told Bridget he found the idea of her and two small people eating Chinese amusing. 

“Thanks for ordering me the dumplings,” she continued. “They  _ are _ my favorite.”

“I know,” Mark said, his dimple deepening as his smile widened. Bridget couldn’t stop staring at it as he looked away, the smirk on his mouth making her stomach erupt into flutterings she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

It wasn’t long before Mark pulled up to the curb beside Fortune Cat. He put the car in park before turning towards her and saying, “Be back in a moment.” She watched as he walked across the front of the car and onto the sidewalk, his one hand casually in his trouser pocket and the other nervously fiddling with his keys. The rain had stopped, and the city before her now glistened in the glow and thrum of the night. Mark expertly dodged a puddle before entering the Chinese restaurant.

The fluttering in her stomach continued to escalate, and she felt hopeless and hopeful at the exact same time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has taken me an embarrassingly long time to write. i have the next planned out in my head, so hopefully it won't take as long. thanks for sticking to this story if you're still reading! <3


	5. nobody knows what i'm doing here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fluff! angst! regret! mark visiting suppressed feelings! this one has it all!

The first cognizant thought Mark had was that he had fallen asleep on the couch again. His head was bent at an awkward angle, and Bingley was curled into his side. The room around him was dark, the recessed lights dimmed. With some effort, he tried to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

The second realization Mark had was that he had drank entirely too much. Clearly this process was becoming all too commonplace, and he made a mental note to get his life in order. His eyes felt like they were glued shut, and there was a dull thud between his temples. As he sat there, trying to gain his bearings, there was a hazy recollection of wine and Chinese food, the tinkling of laughter echoing in his ears. Laughter...it had been a while since that had happened. 

_ Wait. _

Blearily cracking an eye open, Mark chanced a look to where he assumed Bingley had made himself comfortable. Instead of the orange tabby curled into his side, Mark found Bridget. She was nestled against him, her arm bent towards her face as her breath fell in steady, rhythmic puffs. His own traitorous arm was along her back and he had to refrain from quickly pulling it away.

_ Bloody fucking hell. _

Without moving too much, Mark made an effort to look around him. They were in his sitting room, the television a black screen, the clock on the mantle showing that it was 2:21 in the morning. On the coffee table in front of him sat an empty bottle of cabernet, two wine glasses tinged red, and two empty dishes with what appeared to be the scraps of their Chinese takeaway. The scene itself was innocent enough.

As silently as he could, Mark then tried to inspect himself and Bridget. He drew his chin back in an attempt to get a view of what he was wearing, and could see that it was exactly what he had on from the night before. The old white button down he was wearing was rumpled and there was a small splash of red wine near the hem, but all of the buttons were done up and nothing was askew. His feet were propped up on the coffee table next to the remnants of their indulgences, and he was relieved to see that his jeans were still on, as well. Even the seam on his sensible black socks was neatly across his toes, not an inch out of place.

Satisfied that nothing utterly mortifying had happened between him and Bridget, Mark chanced a look down at where Bridget was still asleep against his side. She was still wearing the jeans she had been wearing when he picked her up from the side of the road, but instead of the soaking wet shirt she had had on, she was now wrapped up in one of his old cashmere jumpers. He had a hazy memory of offering it to her when they got into his house, the swell inside of his chest happening again as he thought about how it would smell like her when she returned it. 

As Mark continued to look down at her, he felt his jaw loosen as a warmth coursed through his veins that hadn’t been there in a very long time. There were numerous times that they had fallen asleep like this, whether it was on his couch or hers, but this particular time made his heart race. He allowed his thumb to brazenly brush along her spine, the thrill of feeling his jumper on her skin thrumming through his wine-addled head. 

The night had been good--better than good, if he were to be honest with himself. They had returned back to his home, running through the rain from the car to get into his foyer. Mark could still see Bridget’s face, bright with laughter as she pushed rain soaked hair from her eyes and cheeks, the sleeves of his jacket too long on her arms. She had been laughing at him, her eyes sparkling as she nodded towards his own hair, plastered against his forehead, raindrops hanging heavy on his eyelashes. 

“You look like a drowned rat,” she had said, laughter bubbling around her words.

“Those in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones,” he had replied, taking his jacket from her shoulders. “You’re soaked through. Let me go grab you something dry.”

He had heard her protesting behind him, but he ignored her stammering and took the stairs two at a time. He had opted to grab the old jumper instead of his robe, remembering how much she had liked the soft, worn fabric of it when they had been together. There was a muddled memory of shucking his own rainsoaked shirt off and slipping into the tried and true button down he now found himself in. 

Once returning to the kitchen, Mark had found Bridget leaning against his counter, her arms around herself and her shoes left somewhere by the door. With a smile, he had offered her the jumper, nodding towards the powder room.

“Go put this on,” he had said. “You’re frozen.”

Even around the shiver that shook loose drops of water from her hair, Bridget tired to protest, but he had placed the jumper into her hands and gently steered her towards the powder room.

“Fine, fine. I’m not an invalid,” she had mumbled, and even now, Mark smiled at the bluntness of her tone.

While she was changing in the powder room, he had poured them both a glass of wine and unpacked the damp bags of Chinese food. When she reemerged, Mark’s palms immediately started to sweat. He absentmindedly shoved them into the pockets of his trousers as he watched her timidly walk into the kitchen, her arms across her chest and her eyes dipped down to the floor. She lacked the blind confidence that had sparked off of her when they had been together, and the idea made Mark’s heart hurt.

“I poured you a glass of wine,” he had said, unceremoniously shoving the glass towards her. There was the briefest moment of their hands brushing as she took it from him, a soft, “Thank you,” rolling off her lips. 

After dishing out their dinners onto plates, Mark had suggested they eat on the couch. He hadn’t missed the smirk on Bridget’s face as she nodded in agreement, and he had felt himself blush. How absurd it must have seemed, Mark Darcy suggesting to dine on the couch. A fortifying sip of wine had been essential as he followed her into the sitting room. 

Once they had settled in, everything else came second nature. Mark had put a Coltrane album on low, and he was relieved when Bridget had smiled and said, “I remember this album.” He had smiled back, unsure of how to answer. They sat next to each other on the plush couch (one that she had actually helped him pick out when they were together), eating in companionable silence, their knees just a fraction apart as Coltrane’s saxophone bled into the room.

As they finished their second helping of dumplings and chow mein, their plates had sat empty on the coffee table while Mark splashed more wine into both of their glasses. A pleasant haze had settled itself around Mark’s brain, and he allowed himself more liberty to drink in the sight of Bridget on the couch in his sitting room. She had been cross legged at one end, facing him on the other end. Her hair had dried into haphazard waves, a slight frizz haloing her head and picking up the light from the lamp across the room. Even in the low light, Mark could detect the sparkle in her eyes as intently stared at him over the rim of her wine glass. 

“Thank you,” she had said softly, punctuating the sentence with a sip. “I didn’t realize how much I needed something like this.” Even in the dry wine haze that he found himself in, he still remembered the way his heart had swelled at her words.

“My pleasure,” he had said, trying to stave off the urge to reach across the couch and give her ankle a reassuring squeeze. He had taken a much-too-large gulp of wine instead.

After that, they had talked. Another bottle of wine had been opened. Mark found out that River loves trains and Clemmie loves cooking. Mark had guffawed at that, ribbing Bridget about her blue soup. She had replied, “She gets it from Jack, not me.” Bridget updated Mark about her Urban Family, and Mark had updated her about his actual family. She had asked if he’d been to Grafton Underwood lately, to which he replied no.

“I travel quite a bit for work. I have for a few years now,” he had said, guiltily glancing into his glass. Bridget’s silence spoke volumes, and when he looked up from his glass, he could see her smiling sadly at him. “Mostly human rights stuff over in Syria…” He had trailed off, polishing off the glass before refilling it.

“Mark,” she said softly, reaching across the space and bravely doing what he had been too cowardly to do. The feeling of her hand on his wrist painted his chest with warmth, and he swallowed loudly. “You  _ have _ been taking care of yourself, haven’t you?”

“Oh, yes, yes, of course,” he had muttered. “Just...not much to keep me around London, is there?” He smiled at her then, the sentiment never reaching his eyes. She had smiled back, a mirror image of his own. “Here, let me grab another bottle.” He had awkwardly stood up, beelining for the kitchen.

Once amongst the cold, stainless steel familiarity of the kitchen, he allowed himself to slowly let out a pent up breath. He remembered dragging a hand down his face before bracing both hands against the countertop. It was too much, too wonderful, too familiar. He was rejoicing and regretting his decision to invite her over all in one fell swoop. It took several seconds of pep talking himself into grabbing the other bottle of cabernet. The idea of driving her home was too tempting.

When he returned to the sitting room, Bridget had the television remote in her hand and was absentmindedly scrolling through the channels. Mark had cleared his throat, causing her to look in his direction and smile.

“I figured we could watch a movie,” she had said, her feet curled under her as she leaned against the armrest. “Any requests?”

Mark had sat down, placing the bottle of wine on the coffee table as he shrugged. 

“I’m indifferent.”

“ _ The Greatest Showman _ it is, then,” Bridget had said with a smirk, pressing the button on the remote. 

They weren’t fifteen minutes into the movie before Mark looked in Bridget’s direction and saw that she was asleep. He remembered a tangled web of feeling getting caught in his throat as he watched her chest rise and fall peacefully at the other end of the couch. Another glass of wine had been thrown back before his own eyes had felt heavy, and the last thing he had remembered was leaning his head back onto the couch and thinking to himself,  _ Just a few moments shouldn’t hurt. _

Now, somewhere in the three hours they had been asleep, Bridget had completely flipped herself from one end of the couch to the other, her head nestled against his chest and his arm around her. He looked fondly down at her, his eyes spending a fraction too long on her left hand. It was curled softly near her face, the long sleeves of his jumper covering most of her hands, but not long enough to camouflage the band and diamond that sat on her ring finger.

Bile threatened to rise in his throat--whether it was from the wine or from the rings, he wasn’t sure--and he closed his eyes to fortify himself. Once his stomach had settled, he allowed himself to look down at her again, his hand involuntarily tightening on her hip.

_ How could so much go wrong in such a short amount of time? _

Part of him was sick at the thought that those rings should be his. The little boy who loved trains and the little girl who loved to cook should be his children. They’d all be down in Grafton Underwood, if that were the case...a family holiday to their parents’, the grandparents taking the kids for the night so that he and Bridget could go eat greasy fish and chips in the town square before walking over to the old movie theater to see an old black and white film they played on the weekends. They’d be falling asleep like this regularly, sprawled out on the couch together, but with two kids tucked somewhere amongst them. 

His chest hurt at the thought. All of that wasn’t his, and it was all his fault.

Mark didn’t want to dwell on the slow decomposition of their relationship, but he couldn’t help feeling a little melancholy at the thought that if he had just taken some time for Bridget, they’d still be together. He hadn’t listened to her, taken her for granted, and she had finally pulled back enough to protect herself. He couldn’t blame her for that...he never  _ did _ blame her for that. He only blamed himself.

Looking down at Bridget asleep against his chest, though, sparked a new hope in Mark. By some magnificent stroke of prosperity, he’d somehow been reunited with her. Whether that meant being just friends or actually having the privilege to kiss her again, he wasn’t sure, but he  was willing to run the risk. 

Mark’s hand flexed against Bridget’s hip at the thought. He squeezed her through the fabric of his jumper, his long fingers digging gently into the skin of her hip. She jolted beneath his grasp, her evened breathing coming out in a gasp. 

“Jack? Is that you? Jack?” she cried, pushing herself up from his chest. Mark felt his heart plummet. 

“Bridget, it’s me. It’s Mark,” he said softly, moving his hand from her hip to her back. He rubbed soothing circles against her spine, watching her orient herself to what he was saying. 

“Mark?”

“Yes, love, it’s me.” The endearment slipped out before he could stop it. 

He saw the panicked tension in her shoulders bleed out, the slope of them dropping as she leaned back against him. 

“Oh, Mark, thank goodness,” she sleepily muttered, curling back into his side. “So very happy it’s you.” Instinctively, she tucked herself back against chest, her head nestling under his chin with a content sigh. The hand that had been haplessly curled near her mouth before she woke up was now draped across his stomach, the secure weight of it bringing a lump to Mark’s throat. It wasn’t long before her breathing evened out. 

Pulling the afghan from the back of the couch, Mark draped it across Bridget’s sleeping form. With as much capability as one arm allowed, he tucked it around her and smoothed down her hair. Nuzzling closer, Bridget let out a sigh. 

Unable to help himself, Mark pressed a kiss against the crown of her head before falling back asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from lake street dive's "what am i doing here"

**Author's Note:**

> [Bumpkin Chelsea](http://bumpkinuk.com/venues/chelsea/) & the [incident](https://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/sep/26/briton-dies-during-kayaking-trip-on-lake-in-new-zealand) i based Jack's death off of.


End file.
